


Reflections

by micamus



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Ankoku Ryuu to Hikari no Ken | Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon
Genre: M/M, [insert really long theory about macedon here], anyway alexandros is a greek name, it means protector of men, micamus, they're dumb and in love and that's valid, they're sappy you CANT change my mind, which i thought fit bc michalis is also a greek name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19058317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micamus/pseuds/micamus
Summary: Camus has interesting priorities, but that doesn't change the fact that he loves Michalis. He always will.





	Reflections

Camus wakes up while the sky was still dark, the room lit only by the light of the moon, shining in a dozen different colors as it filters through the large stained windows that serve as decorations just as much as windows. They can hardly be seen through, really, and yet Camus doesn’t mind, not when he can see Michalis, still sleeping, the multi-colored light shining upon him, his hair fanned across the bed, red but also purple and orange, an effect of the light.Camus’ first thought was “how can he sleep like that and not get tangled hair in the morning?” And after that, he thought

~~~~~~

Camus had first met Michalis when they were twelve, when Camus was a mere knight in training, though it was oft-commented that he had an immense amount of potential, of talent. It made Camus proud to hear that, made him feel fulfilled. He had already decided that his purpose was to live and die as a knight. And so, such praise only made him work harder, wake up earlier and stay up later, practicing everything he could. Fighting, riding, tactics, even intellectual pursuits. He wouldn’t allow anything less of himself, not when he was expected to excel. So he trained, even as the sun sank, as the sky darkened and the only light was the light of the moon, and the gentle glow of the few lamps still lit in the barracks, of men who stayed up late, reading, writing, or making merry.

And it was during one of these late nights, one where Camus ignored the blisters that formed on his palms as he trained, and trained, and trained, intent on mastering the art of javelin throwing. He couldn’t possibly expect his lance to attack from a distance, could he? He heard the hushed voices before he saw their owners, and yet even with the distance between him and the speakers, and the quietness with which he spoke, he could hear their words.

“What’s going on?”

“Who is that?”

“How do we handle this? We aren’t prepared to host such a guest!”

“When will he arrive here?”

“Where will he land? It’s not like we have open fields in a military training ground.”

And the most prevalent question, repeated until it became a buzz, echoing around the barracks like the unceasing chirping of the cicadas in the forest around the structure.

“Why is he here? Why not go to the castle directly?”

Camus sought out another person, someone who could possibly explain the situation. Why was everyone so nervous? It didn’t sound like an attack, considering the mentions of a guest, but Camus was able to deduce that whoever this person was, they were very important. So important, in fact, that his commander rushed to him upon seeing him standing idle, telling him to change his clothing, don his regalia, replace his worn out training javelin with a proper spear. “We must be ready to greet our guest,” he said. “Should I wake the others?” Camus asked, pushing down his curiosity in favor of duty. His commander shook his head. “They will not be ready in time. We cannot be anything less than perfect, the image of discipline, of a true knight.” Camus thought to himself that having the majority of their forces asleep upon greeting this very important person hardly confirmed their discipline, but he kept that thought to himself.

And so Camus rushed to his quarters, shedding his training gear in favor of his armor, white and gold and altogether too gaudy. Camus had no fondness to the pompousness of the armor. He had long decided that when he became a knight of significant standing the first thing he would do would be change the attire of a knight to something less needlessly extravagant. An outfit of grey, or black, something that spoke of the quality of their knights and not the vanity of their commanders.

He grabbed his lance, polished wood with a steel point, polished to perfection. A knight must look impeccable at all times, and that meant having a spotless weapon. Perhaps that spoke of his own vanity, Camus thought wryly, but he decided that it was not fair to see care for one’s appearance as purely wrong or right. Perhaps what Camus did not like of his nation’s knights was not the care put into appearance but the excessiveness of which such care was demonstrated. But he did not have time to contemplate his personal viewpoint on the role of physical appearance in knighthood. He was needed elsewhere, after all.

He returned to the training grounds to see the few knights awake enough to answer the call lined up in parallel lines on both sides of the field, forming an aisle. All training equipment had been stripped of the field, resulting in nothing more than a barren patch of land. Hardly the most glamorous place to greet a guest. That confused Camus. Were his commanders not considerate of appearances, even as they had agonized over it only minutes before? While he wanted to spend more time contemplating such a decision, he realized that he was, in fact, late, a place for him conspicuously left open. Upon later reflection, it was quite strange that he noticed the empty space before he noticed the beast situated in the center of the field, flanked by knights. But, considering that he was late because he was contemplating Grust’s fashion, perhaps one could say that his priorities weren’t quite in order that night.

Camus recognized it as a wyvern, having read of them in books and heard the stories of his commander, who painted them as the most savage of beasts. And yet, as Camus gazed upon it, he could not see any savagery. And when the wyvern turned to him, looked at him with reptilian eyes, brilliant gold even in the darkness of knight, he thought that perhaps those knights had made a mistake, that the wyvern was not the most savage but the most the most noble of beasts. He was so consumed in thought that he did not realize that the person riding it had dismounted until he heard his commander clear his throat, audibly grappling with nervousness as he declared, somewhat haltingly, “Welcome, Prince Michalis of Macedonia, to our barracks. How can we assist you?”

Prince Michalis, for his part, looked remarkably unimpressed with the extravagant greeting he was given. He gestured to his wyvern, no longer piercing Camus with its gaze. “Alexandros needed a break. Nonstop flying is no good for a wyvern, no matter how _savage_ he may be.” Michalis did nothing to hide his disdain, fixing his gaze on each one of the knights in turn, daring them to speak up. When he turned to Camus, who looked into his eyes as if he was trying to see into his soul, Camus found himself as transfixed as he was when the wyvern, Alexandros, had stared at him.

Camus’ first thought was “My goodness, he’s handsome.” Well, it was probably something along the lines of “Holy hell that’s some long hair,” but Camus preferred to say the former, if only for the way Michalis flushed as red as his hair when he did, unbearably adorable. And after that, he thought, “He doesn’t seem even half as scary as the others make him out to be.”

~~~~~~

Camus stood in the empty field in which he had first met Michalis, feeling both elated at being able to spend time with the other without the whispered warnings of his comrades and unsure of what to do. Michalis was incredibly graceful in everything he did, Camus thought, watching him tend to Alexandros, stroke his snout and scratch behind his… fin. So he stood there in silence, merely watching the other man, until Michalis turned to him, snapped his fingers in Camus’ face, shaking him out of his reverie. Camus blinked at him in confusion. Michalis rolled his eyes. “I have to go see your commander,” Michalis said, obviously not enthused at the prospect of meeting a man who thought him as savage as his wyvern. Camus actually agreed with such an assessment, knowing that both Michalis and Alexandros possessed both kindness and nobility, and none of the violence that others thought they did. Michalis shoved three cooked chickens into Camus’ arms. “Feed Alexandros.” “Sure,” Camus said, and immediately wished he had come up with a more eloquent response. “Thanks,” Michalis said, amused, and Camus thought that perhaps he could detect fondness in his voice too. But Michalis was gone before he could even think of what to say.

Camus turned to Alexandros, stretched out on the training ground as if he owned it, basking in the summer sun. Camus almost thought that he had fallen asleep, and approached the wyvern as quietly as he could. He was startled when Alexandros’ head shot up to look at him, his eyes suddenly focused on Camus… ’s chickens.Camus had seen Michalis feed Alexandros before, and so he replicated it, tossing one of the chickens high into the air for Alexandros to snatch from the air, with incredible speed and yet as much grace as Camus could attribute to a flying lizard. Alexandros looked quite contented as he ate his chicken, seeming very proud of himself he landed, looking at Camus expectantly. Camus threw another chicken, higher this time. Alexandros shot into the air, grabbing the chicken with blinding speed before landing and fixing Camus with the same expectant look as before. Camus threw his last chicken as high as he could, seeing it soar into the air with Alexandros right behind it. This time, the wyvern did a few fancy flips after he caught his chicken and before drifting the the ground, leaving Camus with a feeling of awe at the wyvern.

“Showoff,” a voice said behind him, and Camus turned to see Michalis. “He just wants to impress you. I’m sure he’s quite proud of himself.” Camus turned to see Alexandros glaring at Michalis, unhappy about being called out. “It was very impressive,” Camus admitted. Michalis cracked a smile at that. “Yes, it was,” he agreed, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice. “Come on,” he said, taking Camus’ hand and dragging him along. “I’ll show you how to pet him.”

Camus’ first thought was “Wow he doesn’t have any calluses even though he rides and wields spears on a regular basis.” And after that, he thought, “It sure is nice to be able to hold Michalis’ hand.”

~~~~~~

It had been exactly ten years since Camus had met Michalis. Camus looked out the window, watching the rain pour on the garden, a drastically diffferent view from the dirt field littered with equipment that he had grown up with. He had recently moved to the capital, part of his promotion as head of the Sable Knights, an elite force of Grust’s best. They were called the Sable Knights because they were all clad in black, something that Camus had insisted upon after his promotion, when the unit was being formed. His colleagues had given him some strange looks for it, but realizing that Camus truly was the best and brightest of Grust’s knights, they decided to humor him. While there was certainly practicality in his decision, there was also a personal reason. He had been late for his first meeting with Michalis because he had been lost in thought regarding the armor of Grust.

When he told Michalis this, years later, Michalis had laughed for about half an hour, before looking Camus dead in the eye and saying, “That’s incredible. I love you.” Then, about 2 seconds later, he realized what he had said and decided to excuse himself. Fortunately for both of them, Camus had, for once, spoke without thinking. “I love you too,” he said. “Please don’t run away.” “I’m not running,” Michalis pouted. It was Camus’ turn to laugh, but it was a soft chuckle, muffled by Michalis’ hair, as Michalis decided to bury his flushed face into the junction between Camus’ neck and shoulder. “If you’re not careful I’ll have you arrested for character defamation,” he threatened, though any danger in the words was entirely lost due to it being muttered into Camus’ shoulder. Camus had only laughed again, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Michalis’ head.

Camus didn’t consider himself a particularly sentimental person, at least not at that point in time, but he figured that today, at least, he could be. “It was fate,” he said, softly, the words swallowed by the sound of rain. Or so he thought. “What was?” someone, Michalis, asked behind him. “Everything,” Camus replied. “Us, our meeting, all of it.” Michalis blinked at him, processing the words. Camus relished the way his face and ears turned red. Michalis scoffed, embarrassed, but he cracked a smile immediately after. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so,” he said quietly. It was Camus’ turn to blush, and that was not lost on Michalis, who merely chuckled in response.

“What happened?” Camus asked, trying to calm his racing heart and cool his burning face. Michalis looked at him blankly, as if the answer should be obvious. “It’s raining,” he said. “I don’t like to fly in the rain.” “Makes sense,” Camus replied. He saw Michalis shiver, though he did his best to hide it. “Are you cold?” he asked. “And if I am?” Michalis shot back. Camus only smiled. “Come here,” he said. “They say it’s good to cuddle for warmth.” He dropped onto his (brand new) couch and held out his arms invitingly. “It’s ‘huddle’, you know,” Michalis said. “You huddle for warmth.” But he didn’t refuse Camus’ invitation, taking a seat next to Camus and dropping his head on Camus’ shoulder.

Camus’ first thought was “his hair is getting me soaked.” And after that, he thought, “I don’t care.”

~~~~~~

“It really was fate,” Camus decided, watching as the rising sun changed the patterns of the stained glass windows. “You’re still on about that?” Michalis asked, his voice raspy from sleep. “Of course,” Camus said, in reply. “How could I possibly have not fallen in love with you?” he said. Michalis replied by slinging an arm over Camus’ waist and pulling him closer. “Go back to sleep,” he said. “It’s too early for this.” Camus chuckled, but complied, settling down to sleep. He could feel the heaviness in his eyelids, and could sense himself drifting into sleep. But before he truly fell asleep, he hard Michalis say two things.

“First of all, you really are sentimental. Not that I’m any better. Second of all, I love you too. I always will.”

**Author's Note:**

> camus is an idiot. he's smart passing but he's actually a dumbass gay. thanks for coming to my ted talk.


End file.
